At the core of preventing the false denial of genocides and crimes against humanity lies an ethical issue. This post addresses the key characteristics of genocide denial, including its definition, arguments and tactics, and the potential danger of erasing historical truth and ethical memory.
One might wonder if exposing these tactics could potentially offer instruction to perpetrators and those who seek to commit such crimes. However, this issue has been faced before in the context of tyranny. Aristotle, for instance, wrote in The Politics about the practices of tyrants, including their efforts to isolate people and break social bonds. While some have criticized Aristotle for these views, others argue that he was simply exposing the tactics of tyranny, rather than endorsing them.
Similarly, Machiavelli’s book The Prince, written in the 16th century, offered advice to tyrants on using deception and cruelty to obtain and maintain power, without regard for ethical standards. Critics have long denounced the book for its inhumane and immoral content. However, Jean-Jacques Rousseau saw it as a way of exposing the actions of tyrants to the public, without any moral framework.
There are a few issues that should be addressed:
Firstly, what has been the historical response to genocide? And how can we determine what constitutes genocide and therefore the issue of denial? Throughout history, genocide (although not necessarily referred to as such) has been a regular occurrence during warfare, with men being killed and women and children being enslaved. There was no apology or remorse at that time; rulers celebrated how many people they had killed and erected monuments to commemorate their victories. Today, genocide is often muted and denied in various ways, despite continuing to occur.
The other issue is: what does one mean by genocide denial? There can be disagreements about whether a particular situation can realistically be described as genocide; in these instances, the term denial is not appropriate. But when there is a strong scholarly consensus on well-documented cases, rejection of these events is considered denial.
For example, there is disagreement today about whether Darfur can be described as a genocide. While the US president, secretary of state, and Congress declared that it was, they took no action. However, scholarly opinion about Darfur is far from uniform: some see it as a continuing genocide, others as genocide at one time but no longer, and still others as “genocide in slow motion”—genocide by attrition.
Was Bangladesh in 1971 a genocide? Few scholars regarded it as such; they viewed it more as a civil war or political repression but not as an attempt to eliminate a people in whole or in part. There are also legitimate questions about whether the war in Bosnia involved genocide, except in the targeted destruction in Srebrenica. The evidence certainly leans toward that conclusion, and some court decisions support it, though some international lawyers have not.
Then there is the case of the prolonged attacks on Indian groups in Guatemala. If one were questioning, in the early years, whether those acts constituted genocide, then, in my opinion, that would not have been a matter of denial. However, if one were to do so after the voluminous records were released and official inquiries took place, then that would be a matter of denying a solidly documented case of acts that fall under the UN Genocide Convention.
The point is that genocide is a highly rhetorical term, and denial can be used too easily. Still, where there is solid documentation and a consensus among those who have considered the evidence (one can never expect unanimity), then the issue of denial comes into play. Anyone who denies the reality of the Armenian Genocide, the Holocaust, or the Rwandan Genocide certainly places themselves in the camp of the genocide deniers.
Another issue should be considered: the family resemblances between other acts that sometimes overlap with denial, that such as erosion of memory, non-recognition, and indifference.
The remembrance of genocide, both within public and governmental circles, depends upon external events (wars, depressions, budget battles) and various forms of memorialization: public ceremonies, prominent individuals speaking of the genocide, and the creation of memorial sites, including museums. The affirmation by states, prominent organizations, and public figures, such as the Pope, are also important. But this is not always possible. For example, after 1915, the Armenian community was caught up in just trying to survive, had no prominent leaders, and was scattered in many lands; the aftermath of WWI, the rise of the Soviet Union, and the outbreak and consequences of WWII led to a lack of interest in what had been a well-known case of genocide. With time, what had been well known became an “unremembered genocide.” Still, there were surprises: the public that had once known forgot, generations changed, and there was suddenly an eruption of demand for recognition. It took place with the sixty-fifth anniversary of the Armenian Genocide and did so worldwide, after a long silence by the Armenian community and others.
Non-recognition of genocide has many causes, but it may overlap with denial. Governments may argue that the facts are unclear and incomplete, or that calling events genocide might require action on their part that would be ineffective, counter-productive, and jeopardize other vital goals of the state. In such cases, the non-recognition of genocide overlaps with denial. However, in other cases, there may be a lack of knowledge or a lack of consensus by those on the scene or otherwise analyzing the events as they unfold. Journalists play a crucial role in shaping what the public and policymakers think about what is happening and what kinds of actions may be required.
The last family resemblance to denial is indifference. When people hear about human rights violations and genocide in distant parts of the world, many individuals show little interest. They might think it does not affect their ethnic group or involve them. Yet, the crime of genocide is a crime against humanity. It is committed on the body of a particular people, but it has implications for us all. The destruction of a group reduces the notion of humanity, forever removing the cultural and biological possibilities inherent in the destroyed group. This was a significant theme in Lemkin’s understanding of genocide. Any government claiming the right to determine which group of people has the right to life is a threat to all of us, even in the most powerful countries. Ethnic and national distance, lack of empathy, and governments calculating that they have no interest in getting involved in particular instances of genocide, such as the case of Rwanda or the US, which was followed by effusive apologies, pretty much tell the story.
For the most part, denial is a form of lying—a deliberate distortion of the facts for some presumed advantage. It is also a major form of what psychologists call a “defence mechanism”—a strategy by which persons attempt to avoid feelings of conflict, anxiety, and frustration. Denial, in this case, is a matter of reinterpreting and reappraising events through selective, positive emphasis. Whether as a lie or as a defence mechanism, it seeks to avoid external threats (payment of reparations, restitution, giving up territory) to defend the perpetrator’s self-image (“Our people, unlike others, do not commit barbarous acts.”), to reject and dehumanize the victims (“They are unworthy of our concern.”), and to justify the genocide (“The dead were traitors, they committed horrible atrocities, they massacred our women and children.”). Thus, denial involves not just the refusal of facts but also the more active strategies of rationalization-giving a reason for the action—but not the real reason. Projection-attributing one’s motives or acts to the victims. And justification-the victims deserved the suffering and death.
But what is being denied? Those who initiate or otherwise participate in genocide typically deny that the events took place, that they bear any responsibility for them, trivialize or rationalize the destruction, and that the term genocide applies to what occurred.
Let us now look at these elements and how someone engaging in genocide denial would go about their “work.” First, one would deny the facts, insisting that no large-scale, systematic attacks occurred. If any deaths had happened, they were few in number and a result of wartime conditions—they were not the intentional killing of members of an ethnic group. The factual basis of the genocide would be denied:
- by questioning the motives of those who point to its reality;
- by rejecting almost all of the evidence;
- and by manipulating population estimates and the uncertainty inherent in determining the number of victims.
Evidence suggesting that people were killed outright or placed in conditions that lead to their death would be dismissed as hearsay, an example of wartime propaganda, personal bias, or sheer fabrication. That there was a plan to destroy the victims would be denied on the same grounds. But there is an important issue about the number of persons who perished. By calling into question one factual claim—the number of deaths—the perpetrator would seek to call into question the entire account of the Genocide. And where claims are made to the right of self-determination, the perpetrator’s low estimate of the victim group’s population would form a basis for claiming that members of the group were never a majority in any part of the territory they considered their homeland. Thus, the population argument would be an attempt to undermine any claim to self-determination.
After rejecting the factual basis for Genocide, the question of responsibility arises: the perpetrator is not responsible. If there was death, it was the victims’ fault who brought it upon themselves by engaging in subversion, rebellion, or civil war. Most who died were not killed but perished due to famine, disease, and the breakdown of social control—not through the power of the state. In the case of the Armenians, the deaths were so widespread that other explanations had to be created: the Kurds did it, overzealous officials exceeded their authority, and enraged peasants took vengeance. The argument against responsibility rests on three pillars (though this may vary from case to case):
- circumstances were beyond the state’s control;
- others did the “infrequent” acts of violence,
- and the government and people acted in self-defence—that is, the “victims” were, in reality, the perpetrators.
Typically, there is also the argument that whatever happened and whoever is responsible, the concept of Genocide is not applicable. One could illustrate this many times over, but the clearest example is that of Turkey and the destruction of the Armenians during 1915–1917 (though the actual killing went on until 1923). The argument still maintained today is that Armenian lives were “lost” but not because of a strong state entirely in control and bent on carrying out a final resolution of the Armenian question; rather, conditions throughout the Ottoman Empire were almost anarchical: there was, to a large extent, a breakdown of order and this, along with war, famine, and disease, accounts for most lives lost. The claim is that few Armenians were actually killed and never systematically in pursuit of a premeditated plan. There was no plan to destroy the group—only the wartime necessity of relocating them for the sake of military security. Those deported, it is claimed, were generally treated well, and all necessary provisions were made for their safety, though this broke down at times. Some Armenians were killed by criminals and roving tribes (read, Kurds); others died due to the civil war they were waging against Turkey within a global war. But neither in the case of murders committed by ordinary criminals nor acts of military necessity can one speak of Genocide. Such is the claim, though it is not mentioned that the common criminals were released from prison precisely to serve as killers, within the Special Organization responsible for most Armenian deaths—a million or more.
Traditionally, the three elements of denial were the facts, the responsibility, and the applicability of Genocide to whatever happened. Lately, a new theme has emerged, offering yet another logical possibility in the denial of Genocide, and it has gained traction: trivialization and relativization. This creates many new opportunities for denial arguments. There could be a moral equivalency argument: both sides engaged in Genocide. Hence, it is concluded that there were no victims or perpetrators. It is the old argument that all cats are black in the dark. Universalizing the guilt means that no one was guilty. Nevertheless, Genocide is not a clean-hands event, and it is seldom an equal-opportunity event. It was certainly neither of these things in the Armenian case, the Holocaust, or Cambodia.
Another argument is that similar events have been recurrent throughout history and that there are far worse cases that could be cited. There is also an attempt to minimize the number of dead and to hide the brutality, rape, and cultural destruction of the Genocide. One might cite a million deaths of the Armenians, but then would be countered with Stalin’s famine/genocide in Ukraine that resulted in six million deaths, and then with Mao’s irrational programs that led to the deaths of over 20 million persons. The argument’s conclusion: What is the big deal about your (small) loss of life?
These are the arguments and the logical possibilities of denial. Not all will be deployed simultaneously—that is a matter of circumstances and resources—but the possibilities are there. And the process of denial will depend very much upon political conditions and opportunities. On the other hand, genocide denial is a default position: unless there is a severe challenge, it is all a matter of calming the waters. Perpetrators over denial prefer silence. However, now that the Assyrians and Pontic Greeks are putting forth their cases that they, too, were subjected to Genocide along with the Armenians, Turkish authorities are faced with yet another effort, after 100 years, to deny any genocide against its Christian minorities.
There is also the argument—and this was made explicit concerning the Armenians by the Princeton historian Lewis Thomas in the 1950s – that Genocide is just a part of development. Yes, the loss of so many lives is tragic, but Turkey emerged with a largely homogenous population, a strengthened and unified nation, and a more viable ally of the United States during the Cold War.
Concerning trivialization, two prime examples come in mind; first, Jean-Marie Le Pen, the French ultra-rightist politician who said that the Nazi gas chambers were only “a detail of history”; second, the claim that more Germans than Jews died during WWII, one which straddles trivialization and relativization and ignores the vast differences between intentional death through Genocide and loss of life through war.
These, then, are some perspectives on the denial of Genocide. Two others are especially worth mentioning. In her work on the Holocaust, Deborah Lipstadt speaks of the “Yes, but” mode of denial. Applied to the Armenian case, it would read as follows: “Yes, Armenians died, but so did Turks. Yes, Armenians were killed, but they brought it upon themselves. Yes, the conflict took place, but it was a civil war within a global war.” Yet the best summary of genocide denial is perhaps provided by Israel Charny in his “template of denial,” the rules of which include:
- Do not acknowledge that the Genocide took place.
- Transform it into other kinds of events.
- Portray the victims as the perpetrators.
- Insist more victims were from the perpetrator’s group.
- Relativize the Genocide in whatever way possible.
Tactics
Denial depends on arguments even though those who pursue them do not have to prove anything, only plant confusion and doubt. Denial is also a matter of tactics, which will vary between perpetrator regimes and their successors, and will be calculated, flexible, and change with circumstances. At the first, the tactic may be to blame others; this may be followed by an attempt to silence any mention of the Genocide by using political, diplomatic, and economic pressure. But once the Genocide comes back into public view, as it did with the sixty-fifth anniversary of the Armenian case, the regime will adopt more harsh tactics, including threats of violence if, for example, a conference is held in which the Armenian Genocide will be addressed. This happened in Tel Aviv in 1982, with the suggestion that, under the circumstances, the security of Jews in Turkey could not be guaranteed. Similar threats were made against the US Holocaust Memorial Museum if it included any Armenian references in its presentations. Turkish citizens are also liable for prosecution for mentioning the Genocide: Article 301 of the criminal code classifies discussion as an “insult to Turkey.” Millions of dollars have also been spent to defeat Congressional resolutions recognizing the Genocide. And when France recognized it in 2002, billions of dollars worth of contracts were voided by Turkey in retaliation. The same was threatened in 2006, when France was considering prohibiting denial of the Armenian Genocide, thereby placing it, in that regard, alongside the Holocaust.
A concerted effort was made to keep any mention of this Genocide out of UN documents, school curricula, and out of films and the news media. Scholars and journalists are encouraged to “tell the other side of the story.” Research institutes are also created that engage in denial. Government money flows into some university presses to facilitate the publication of the regime’s line about what really happened. More recently, lawsuits, actual and threatened, have been discovered to be valuable tools for silencing scholars and inducing them into engaging in self-censorship. The word has gotten out: lawyers are not cheap; even if you win your case, you may end up in bankruptcy.
But what some efforts at silencing are best at is inducing various countries, the United States above all, into aiding and abetting denial out of practicality. Not all states can pull this off, but some have been very successful at it, such as Turkey. Unfortunately, politics deals not so much with truth as with perceived interests: where security, access to essential resources, and profit are concerned, even the horrible and prolonged destruction of a people will be suppressed and deliberately overlooked by governments.
Conclusion: Genocide Denial and Prevention
We have looked closely at Genocide and its denial: the arguments and tactics used to fend off criticism, demands, and, in some cases, a claim to self-determination by returning the territory to those who were victims of an earlier genocide. Denial of Genocide is the cry of innocence that follows mass killing, echoed by the victims’ successors. The society that the perpetrator regime rules over may continue denial for many years (with Turkey, it is now approaching a century). We need to pay attention to some consequences of denial. First of all, it tends to support the re-enactment of Genocide not only by the original perpetrator but also by others who wish to resolve political and social problems through mass violence, defining the problem as the people who are said to constitute it the problem. The main clue as to where Genocide will occur next is to look at places with a previous history of it—Rwanda is an excellent example of this. But it is not always so. Still, disregard for Genocide by the public, which forgets or is unaware of governments who aid and abet or turn a blind eye, sends a clear message to perpetrators and would-be perpetrators that they can commit Genocide, and, with sufficient denial and the passage of time, they will be free from any adverse effects—indeed, will be welcomed back into normal society, if there is any such thing internationally.
Then there is the effect of denial on the distancing of persons from fellow humans: reducing any sense of shared humanity. If the Armenians, the Bengalis, and the Bosnians didn’t suffer so much, and since there have been worse tragedies, why should we be so concerned? Besides, I am not one of them. The notion that Genocide is a crime committed not only on the body of a particular people but against all of humankind is lost through denial. Human sympathy is also lost, as is a concern for those who have suffered the devastation of Genocide.
Another consequence is the corruption of scholarship; aside from its ethical aspects, which are enormous, there is the distortion and obliteration of the knowledge we could gain from past examples of Genocide. From such knowledge could come deep insights into why this crime occurs and how it might be prevented.
The final point about consequences is the ability of the deniers to entangle governments into aiding and abetting them in their efforts through lobbying and imperial politics. In the case of the United Kingdom, whose own ambassadors and diplomatic staff to the Ottoman Empire wrote extensive and timely cables to the foreign office and whose archives are filled with information about the Genocide of 1915, one feels more than regret—one feels a sense of shame and betrayal.